


with interest

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Exchange of favors, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Tumblr: kyluxhardkinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: Hux's husband makes bad deals with unsavory people. Hux tries to settle his debts, even if that involves getting up close and personal with loan shark Kylo Ren.





	with interest

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, [the-garbage-chute](http://the-garbage-chute.tumblr.com)! Have a fill for [this kyluxhardkinks prompt](http://kyluxhardkinks.tumblr.com/post/157041317300/to-help-pay-off-his-husbands-debt-hux-fucks-the): To help pay off his husband's debt, Hux fucks the loan shark Kylo.
> 
> Translation into Russian available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6069764)!
> 
> The working title for this was Florida Man vs Strawberry Shortcake, so y'all know.
> 
> Thank you for all your help, [@artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com) and [@thewightknight](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com) !

“Four thousand six hundred. Hate to say it, but that ain’t gonna cover a week’s interest.”

The tiles under Hux’s feet sway a little. His face goes hot, then icy, then hot again; he can feel it turning blotchy red, a habitual response he’s tried to break his body from with no results for years.

“How -- how do you figure?” he says, bracing himself against the counter. The glass feels slick, oily, under his clammy palms. 

Ren slurps nastily on the lollipop he’s got hitched between his lips. It clicks against his teeth as he talks; the paper stick protrudes from his mouth, dyed pink at the top, where the candy is melting, mixing pruriently with his saliva. He hefts the cufflinks in his massive hand once more, then sets them back down, next to Hux’s Rolex Submariner and the thin, rose gold circle of his wedding ring. 

“These aren’t bad. 18 karat. They were, what, around two grand? The ring, let’s say another thou -- let me guess, you paid more?”

“Fifteen hundred,” Hux says, noting that his voice sounds a little firmer this time. Small favors, he thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Way I see it, you got hustled, but all right. I’ll meet you in the middle. Twelve. That’s thirty two hundred, at sixty percent of value, brings you to about two. Add in twenty six for the watch, and there you are.”

Ren gives the candy another wet suck, and pulls it out of his mouth, points it at the Rolex band as if for emphasis.

“Now, you’re about to tell me that watch cost you seven thousand new, and that’s less than forty percent, and that’s bullshit; I’m ripping you off, yeah? Go ahead, you can say it, I won’t bite.”

“Seven thousand five hundred. Yeah,” Hux squeezes out. A droplet of melted pink slides down the side of the pop, all the way down the stick, and drips onto the glass before it can hit Ren’s fingers. 

“Yeah, you’re right, I am ripping you off,” Ren says calmly, opening a latch under the counter. “Them’s the breaks. It’s a nice watch, don’t get me wrong, but I got no use for it right now, to tell you the truth.” 

He pulls a sueded tray loose from underneath, and sets it on the glass between them. Steel, gold and crystal wink up at Hux, reflecting the electric light; rows and rows of bezeled faces, blue dial, black, white, green. 

“And that’s just what’s out here,” Ren says, sliding the tray back inside the glass. “So, twenty six hundred, take it or leave it.”

The wall-mounted TV behind him chooses that moment to let out a fresh guttural moan, a choked wail that cuts out into a wet, squelching smack of skin on skin. 

Hux cringes. 

Earlier, as GPS led him down over a set of train tracks and through an unfamiliar stretch of streets, Hux had been fuming with righteous indignation, ready to settle with a few choice words and maybe a threat of legal action, assured of having the moral high ground and ready to make a clean break, maybe not with Orson quite yet, but certainly with this entire distasteful, humiliating business. 

He should have known exactly how this day was going to turn out long before walked into the grimy innards of the Village Pawn, the decor shot for shot like what they showed on the evening news or CSI, minus the police tape: _cash for gold_ buzzing neon pink. Barred windows, _guns_ , _instant $$_ , _buy -- sell -- trade_ stenciled onto the door. Chipping paint, mismatched tile, glass that looks like it hasn’t ever seen Windex. 

No; he should have known it was all going to be a shitshow when he stepped in gum getting out of the car. His polished loafer pulled up from the pavement with sticky reluctance; Hux swore, clicked his keyfob, engaging the locks on the Lexus, and spent a long minute clutching at the heated metal as he scraped his heel futilely over the curb.

He doesn’t believe in portents or omens, but if the gum still clinging to his soles wasn’t a sign, then more gum wadded into the parking meter’s coin slot sure as hell must have been. The guys loitering around the shopfront in their Harley shirts with the sleeves ripped out; he’s reasonably sure there was a gun tucked into the back of the shorter guy’s jeans. 

The man sprawled behind the counter, long black hair and dark scruff, white tank top, jean legs propped up idly on the glass, eyebrows furrowed in concentration at the tangle of limbs on the TV.

“Is that -- ?” Hux trailed off, eyes flitting between the man’s muscled shoulders, the lollipop sliding in between his lips, and the pink, round ass with a white triangle of tan line spread out and filling the flatscreen. As he watched, the TV angle swayed, zoomed; a red handprint bloomed on one pert asscheek, followed by a series of vigorous, plaintive moans. 

“I, uh. I’m looking for a Kylo Ren. Do you think maybe you could turn that down?”

“You found him,” the man said, turning idly towards Hux, glance sliding, disinterested, over his white, pressed trousers, the pastel pink paisley of his button down, before returning to the TV. “And no. What do you need, Strawberry Shortcake?”

Standing there, staring at his favorite pair of cufflinks -- his gift to himself on occasion of Orson getting the coveted Director post, his watch -- a placating gift from Orson on the subsequent occasion of being fired from the position after three months, at his own damn wedding band, there on the counter above trays upon trays of the like, next to a massive clear case with three semi-automatic rifles labeled _authentic Russian, pre-ban_ , and a Fender guitar, signed, purportedly, inexplicably, by Bob Ross, Hux still can’t quite believe that Orson -- his proper, meticulous, genteel husband -- ever came here. That he considered this an option, let alone actually took money from the man behind the counter, this Kylo Ren, who’s now ceased paying attention to Hux altogether, engrossed in sliding his sticky lollipop over his obscenely long tongue as he blinks at the TV. 

“Oh, fuck! Harder, more, Daddy, please,” the TV begs; Hux jolts, looking up. The camera has pulled back, showing the pretty pink cheeks from earlier spread open, the cleft glistening wetly with lube. Three thick fingers fuck into the stretched, reddened hole; as Hux stares, the man adds a fourth, probably working up to a soon-to-be fist. 

“What about your car?” Ren asks suddenly, turning around in his chair; from this side, Hux can see the gaudy tattoo on his left arm, a sword with a crossguard piercing through a mangled knight’s helmet. 

“That’s leased. And it’s mine,” he bristles. “Look, we don’t -- my husband doesn’t have that kind of cash, I offered you everything I could think of, and -- “

“Huh,” Ren says, like he hasn’t heard. “So, if not the car, what _did_ you spend 75K on?”

Hux can’t breathe. His limbs feel suddenly heavy, leaden, feet rooted to the floor.

“I. What? That can’t be. Seventy five thousand dollars?”

“Ooh, you didn’t know? Awkward,” Ren says. “There I thought you were here to ensure this doesn’t affect you any, just your not so much better half.”

“Fifteen. He said fifteen,” Hux sputters; across the counter, Ren looks at him with a measure of what can only be construed as pity. 

“So, let me sum it up. You don’t have my cash, or any other cash in reasonable amounts. No valuables to speak of. Anyone even know you’re here? Except for husband dearest, that is. Tell me, Strawberry Shortcake. What am I supposed to do with that?”

He lifts up from his seat, stretches forward, leaning over the counter. Hux notes, not for the first time, but now tinged with more than a degree of fear, how incredibly fit Kylo Ren is. His pectorals strain at the thin tank top, and his arms are probably as thick around as Hux’s thighs. 

Ren plucks the lollipop from his mouth, points it in Hux’s direction, and makes a spinning gesture in the air. 

“Turn around.”

Hux turns, takes a wavering step towards the door; behind him, Ren laughs, low, coarse.

“Nah, not like that. Gimme a little turn. Do it slower. There you go, that’s more like it.”

Hux moves slowly, gingerly this time; stands, his back to Ren, prickling with anxious anticipation.

Nothing happens for a long moment. Hux waits, listens for movement behind his back, something, anything, but can’t detect a thing other than the obscene sounds of the TV. 

He turns back around finally, only to see Ren sprawled idly in his chair, attention once again on the screen. He looks almost bored, as he scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Was that… it?”

“Were you expecting something more?”

“Well, yes,” Hux huffs, embarrassed, angry at himself for still being here, for letting this man, this uncouth, criminal, profoundly unpleasant creature talk to him like that. His face must be going red again, he notes dejectedly as he feels his cheeks heat. Ren chuffs, and finally, blessedly, mutes the TV, jabbing his finger into the small remote.

“All right, Strawberry Shortcake, tell you what. I’ll knock a hundred bucks off your tab for how good your tight little ass looks in those pants.”

“What?” 

“You were thinking something more substantial? Fine. Don’t say I never did nothing for you. Go lock the door and put the back in five minutes sign up, it's right over there. Oh, and take your shirt off.”

“What?” Hux says again, dumbly. Ren shrugs.

“What about that was unclear? Door -- locked. Sign -- up. Shirt -- off. I’m gonna do you the favor you’re aiming for. Don’t try to tell me you don’t want it, now?”

Hux turns on suddenly wooden legs, heart jumping inside the cage of his ribs until he can feel it pounding in his throat. The rational, reasonable side of his brain is yelling, urging, prodding at him to keep walking, all the way out the door, calm, slow (run when you reach the goons camped outside), get in the car, and drive like hell out of town. Anywhere, as long as it’s far; fuck this, fuck Kylo Ren, fuck his money, fuck Orson, for even thinking of getting him into this mess. He started it, and he can sort it out. 

(You’re not making it to the car. Orson knew exactly what he was doing, when he told you he’d run into a little problem, knew you’d try to sort it out in person, knew you wouldn’t resist being able to hold it over him for all the time to come. He’s probably packed by now, he’s --)

Panicked, Hux looks back over his shoulder. Ren is watching him, face blank, beefy arms crossed over his chest.

It’s likely nothing so dire. He’d be allowed to leave, he is almost sure of it. Ren knows who he is, knows who they are. Knows where to find them, when the interest is due. 

And yet. 

Slowly, Hux shuffles to the door. Fiddles with the lock, finally clicking it shut. Picks through the stack of signs until he’s found the right one, and puts it up on the glass by its suction cup hook. 

When he turns back around, Ren is out from behind the counter, looming even bigger somehow than Hux expected, taller, wider. He's still sucking on the lollipop casually, smearing the rapidly diminishing sphere over his lips; something about it is unsettling enough that Hux fumbles with the hem of his shirt as he tries to pull it loose from his waistband with trembling fingers. It snags on his belt; he should probably undo that first, or maybe the buttons, the collar, his cuffs. 

“You’re looking mighty confused there, Strawberry Shortcake,” Ren says, watching him struggle with the same disinterested look he’d given the TV. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

He’s blushing. Again, damn his useless, disobedient nervous system. There is no reason for it, no reason he should be so awkward in front of this man, inviting more mockery on top of how degrading this feels already. His stomach gives a tense little flip, a heated shiver passing through; Hux finally manages his shirt, undoes the buttons, pulls the sleeves off of his skinny shoulders. 

Kylo Ren doesn’t look convinced. He gives Hux a brief up and down, eyes narrowing, and Hux resists the urge to cover his pale, narrow chest with his hands, with the shirt he's holding, crumpled, because he can't figure out what to do with it. 

“This is looking less worthwhile by the minute,” Ren says with a low, deep sigh, and holds out his arm. “All right, come here. Give me that.”

Hux doesn’t know why, but he tries not to let their hands brush as he relinquishes the shirt into Ren’s grasp; he feels like something horribly irreversible will happen when he finally touches Ren’s skin, and barely has the presence of mind to contain his irritation when Ren tosses his shirt somewhere behind him without looking. 

“That was a hundred dollar shirt, you absolute ass,” he complains; it probably has grease on it now, or floor grime, or worse, melted cherry candy.

“Noted,” Ren says. “I’ll take it off the interest.” 

He's got the lollipop hanging from his mouth, both hands free as he unhurriedly opens his jeans, then points it right back into Hux’s face.

“All right, here's how this is going to work. You get down there and show me this is worth my time. Come on, let's go, chop chop. Remember, I’m doing you a favor.”

He doesn’t snap his fingers, but he might as well have, Hux thinks, as he lowers himself to the dirty floor. He could still back out, probably. Could still stand, find his shirt somewhere behind Ren’s counter, button it on. Walk out, with some scraps of his pride still intact, somewhere, the knees of his trousers only a little stained.

Instead, he swallows bitter spit, takes a deep breath. Reaches over, and pulls Ren’s jeans down lower until they pool around his thighs, baring the edge of his flat belly, the flare of his hip bones, and the atrocious tattoos on either side, two revolvers angled down, the barrels wrapped in thorny roses, and pointing to the thicket of Ren’s messy black pubic hair. 

He’s not wearing underwear; this close, Hux can smell him, hot fresh sweat starting to go sour. He wrinkles his lip. He likes his partners neatly groomed; maybe not fully bare like in porn, but he insists that Orson at least keep properly trimmed and only ever sucks him after a shower, fresh and clean-scented. Ren’s unruly bush doesn’t look like it’s ever seen a razor. Hux cautiously moves his gaze lower and feels his pulse spark as he takes in Ren’s cock, still only half hard, but huge, bigger than he’s seen in a while, thick and flushed, the veins beginning to stand out, criss-crossing under the skin. 

“Come on,” Ren says, “do you want an engraved invitation? Need me to tell you to open that pretty mouth and suck it, that get you going?”

“Fuck,” Hux shudders out, because against all odds, it does; his own cock twitches suddenly in the confines of his pants, rubbing up against the seam. He leans up and slurps his tongue over the crown of Ren’s cock, tasting salty skin and bitter precome pooling at the slit. 

Above him, Ren hisses as if scalded; encouraged, Hux sucks his tip in between his lips and circles the ridge, forms a slippery tight ring around the head and twists his tongue underneath. He can already imagine how much his jaw is going to ache later as he braces his hands on Ren’s hard, thick thighs and screws his mouth down as far as he can, coaxing himself onto Ren’s dick inch by sticky, sloppy inch. 

Ren pulses on his tongue, filling out; his cock is heavy, hot against the roof of Hux’s mouth. Hux hollows his cheeks, tries to curl his lips over his teeth as he goes deeper, but can’t avoid a slight scrape over the crown, soothes it with his tongue, dragging it around the tip to dip lightly into Ren’s slit. 

Spit dribbles out of the corners of his mouth, slimes down his chin as he bobs his head, Ren’s coarse, sweaty pubes tickling at the tip of his nose as he fits more of him into his mouth. He doesn’t think he can get him down all the way without letting Ren fuck his throat, and he doesn’t want to do that, not yet. He pulls back slowly, chancing a quick look upwards, only to find that Ren isn’t looking back; he’s got his face angled back towards the TV again, still working the candy in his mouth.

Hux huffs angrily through his nostrils, clamping his lips tighter around Ren’s shaft; he doubts Ren has ever had much better than this, is determined to get him to pay attention. He shifts his hands to Ren’s hips and _pulls_ him deeper in, eyes immediately starting to water as he swallows hard around the fat cock, letting it settle back in his throat. It’s hard to breathe, to control the spasm in his jaw; Hux makes a desperate, low noise deep in his chest and cups Ren’s balls, rolls them around in his fingers, stroking at the silky, thin skin the way he usually likes when he jerks himself off. 

Ren’s cock twitches, the vein pulsing as Hux releases him from the clutch of his throat, caresses the entire length with his tongue, pursing his lips to create more suction. His breath comes in torn, wet rasps; he pulls off almost entirely, taking in more air, and stretches his jaw wider, groans as he lets Ren back down almost all the way. 

Ren breathes loudly; Hux feels his hands come down, wrap themselves in his hair and hold tight. He flicks his hips forward, pumping his cock at the back of Hux’s throat, and keeps him steady as he pulls back, dick sliding from Hux’s mouth with a nasty wet squelch. 

“Hold still,” Ren mutters, dragging the tip of his cock all over Hux’s mouth, his cheek, precome and his own drool leaving a tacky thick film on his lips. He closes his eyes reflexively as Ren traces the hot velvet head up over his cheekbone, over the bridge of his nose, and doesn’t realize he’s holding his lips shut tight until Ren is pushing harshly against them, salty and sticky, nudging his way inside.

“Open,” he demands; Hux reaches to lick at his tip again, to suck him back inside, but Ren won’t let him, pumps his hips sharply in to fuck Hux’s mouth in short, even strokes. Hux can only breathe and try to keep from drooling as Ren holds him in place, speeding up, going harder and deeper until Hux’s lips feel sore and bruised. 

When Ren comes, it’s hard and sudden; Hux gets no warning before Ren grunts, and thick, acrid streaks of spunk coat his mouth, landing on his tongue, leaking from the corners of his puffy, swollen lips. He keeps coming for what feels like ages and Hux struggles to keep it all in his mouth, a warm, slippery trickle running down his chin. 

After Ren finally lets him loose, Hux looks up at his sweaty, reddened face, strands of lank hair hanging over his forehead, and turns his head deliberately and slowly to the side. When he is certain Ren is watching, he spits the come onto the floor tile, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s going to take more than that to get the taste out, but it’s at least a start. 

Ren chuckles.

“OK, yeah, that’ll work,” he says, catching his breath. 

Hux stands carefully, his knees screaming in protest. His trousers are probably ruined, he notes with morose irritation as he begins looking for his shirt. 

“Not going far. Won’t need your shirt for that,” Ren says. “Come on, ya couldn’t think it would be that easy, now, could you? Do you even understand how math works?”

“Yeah, I understand how math works,” Hux snaps, craning his head to look behind the counter, but his shirt doesn’t seem to want to be found.

“Well, then, let me break down the figures. Market rate for what you just did is maybe two hundred, plus upcharge for no rubber, that’s fifty extra. You want to pay it off in trade, I’m amenable, but it’s gonna be a whole lot more of this in your immediate future.”

Hux turns towards him with a tired sigh.

“You know what? Just go break Orson’s legs. Or his thumbs, or his arms, or whatever it is you do. I don’t even care. It’s his debt. Please, can you leave me out of it?”

“Vicious. I like that,” Ren says, and smiles wide. “Come on, Strawberry Shortcake, let’s go upstairs.”

**Author's Note:**

> shame me on [tumblr](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com) in 3, 2, 1...


End file.
